Quite A Pair
by Yosei-kun
Summary: John had been living as a beta, getting used to finally not living and breathing Sherlock Holmes, when the git decides that he can waltz into his life and expect a grand welcome. After the realization that it was "not good" to disappear for two years, Sherlock works to regain John's trust and a new case with murders and lipstick messages seems like a good place to start. (A/B/O)


**A/N:** For a prompt of omegaverse John/Sherlock and a case! (Totally forgot to post this on here like weeks ago, sorry! ^^;)

**Warning:** M/M, its like all I ever write :,D I don't own BBC Sherlock and if Benedict Cumberbatch saw this I'd probably die so don't show him or Martin Freeman, kaaay?

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><p><strong>Quite a Pair<strong>

_Chapter I: Content_

John had been on a date, since his psychiatrist had begun to worry about how little John had gone out these days, with a kind beta named Mary. She was sweet and lovely with a tasteful body and stunning smile. She also had something about her that temporarily kept John's adrenaline-addiction slightly sated. So, all in all, she was a good woman. Too bad John was actually an omega and not a beta as he had been masquerading, but he liked her company none-the-less and outside of his heats, she was a nice fix to his starved libido and he a fix for hers. John's psychiatrist still worried that he wasn't really trying to put his all into getting out, but when he had met Mary, that all changed and he felt like the gaping hole in his chest was slowly being mended... until that fucking mop of curls made a dramatic entrance.

This date with Mary had been more special. After being with her for a while, he wanted to tell her about his true second-gender (as his psychiatrist recommended) and possibly make the relationship a bit more serious. Like hell that was going to happen, like hell he would be having a normal relationship, like hell he could be in love truly with anyone, but Sherlock bloody Holmes. And that's what John thought as he punched and strangled the genius in the middle of the restaurant, effectively getting them kicked out. This cycle repeated itself a few more times until they couldn't get kicked out of anymore places, John's fist hurt, and Sherlock was sporting a bloody nose. All at once, John felt the hole in his chest being torn even more as he fought to hold his emotions back and not break his friend's face. The only things that really registered were that Sherlock had deduced that John was an omega in the first restaurant (which was barely a quarter of the reason John threw the punch), Sherlock had deduced Mary (which she amiably soldiered through, unlike many of the genius' other victims), Sherlock had finally told him the truth of his 'horrid' mustache, that Sherlock would hear another rant about how John now wouldn't be able to get into several restaurants, and that Sherlock was back. Sherlock was back. Sherlock wasn't dead. And John had just punched the daylights out of him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John said in the cab after Mary had said goodnight and caught her own cab back home. John could feel those light eyes turn back to him and start searching his face for clues as to if he was going to get punched again. John let his body relax into a less threatening and angry posture. Sherlock let out a soft huff which was muffled by the mound of cloth he held to his injured nose. Another huff came that sounded like words, but were still muffled. On purpose. "Sherlock, you and I both know I couldn't hear that, so please speak up."

"I'm sorry too, John." He said as he pulled away the cloth and checked his no-longer bleeding nose. John didn't really notice much else than the great Sherlock Holmes apologizing. "I made a … miscalculation and let go of a piece of information I can see you wanted to keep to yourself."

"Right." John tensed a little at the thought of the conversation he would have to have with Mary, but it was unavoidable anyway. "How did you know that anyway?" John had felt his anger finally fade away to be replaced with curiosity. Sherlock smiled, despite the split lip.

"Simple. I know that you had been taking a medication which you had said was for you limp, but when I had cured it, you kept the bottles anyway so that meant you had something else to treat or were on suppressants I had given up my quest when you had told me it was 'a bit not good' to be searching through your room for them every time you left."

"I kept them on me after I caught you half under the bed, searching the frame." John knew he shouldn't be smiling, but the git had no sense of privacy.

"A miscalculation, I thought you were at work, but I digress. I had found you in the restaurant with a woman—make-up perfected, dress chosen to insinuate best bodily features, leaning forward despite that she would be able to hear you perfectly across a much larger distance—who was sexually interested in you and smelled neutral, like a beta. You..." Sherlock pursed his lips, the only sign that he was feeling emotion, before he batted it away and continued. "were wearing your 'date attire' and looked as if you had put some more efforts into your looks to be charming," Before John could take it as a compliment, he added. "but that mustache!"

"Really, Sherlock!?" John was angry—he thought he would look more rugged and handsome with facial hair—but it really didn't build up to anything accept laughter.

"Please shave it as soon as possible." Sherlock gave a small smile and continued, again. "Being with betas would make things a lot more simple for you, since betas can't smell if you are an omega or an alpha, but being with one also made you careless since your omega pheromones are beginning to permeate and your hips shifted as I approached, so you missed your last dosage of suppressants"

"Brilliant." John smiled as he basked in the familiar feel of deductions that slid by the majority of the human race unnoticed, but Sherlock couldn't not see everything if he tried. Sherlock himself felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips as John complimented him; John was the only one who found him incredibly brilliant, amazing, fantastic, and every other synonym, even when he was eagerly punching him in the face. The military doctor was one of a kind, but as silence fell in the cab and they made their way back to 221B, Sherlock knew that another confrontation was about to boil over about his being gone, lying, deepening the lines on the doctor's face with mourn and worry. Once at the flat, Sherlock got out and John paid, following after him, but before Sherlock could actually form a smile at the automatic behavior, he opened the door to their flat and frowned at the packed boxes sitting everywhere.

"You were planning on leaving. Planning on, if all went well, moving in with that woman." It wasn't a question and John shrugged off his coat, hung it up, and made his way to the kitchen before replying.

"I wasn't really sure, I'm still not, Sherlock. Mary is a wonderful woman and-" John ignored the sad look that only showed in his stunning mercurial eyes. "she has been very kind to me since... you left."

"John." The way he said his name wasn't just an apology, but a certain and very rare mourning of his own. That helped, that he wasn't a complete machine and felt bad about what he had done, but it wasn't enough.

"Two years. You have been gone for two years, Sherlock. Not a word, text, letter, or a single clue as to whether you were alive. I wanted to think that it didn't really happen. You made me come to terms with the fact that it did, you died that day. You died and yet I couldn't fucking bring myself to leave this place." He gestured to the flat. "I thought that you would come back."

"I did, John. I'm here." The deep baritone of Sherlock's voice made the omega in him want to give in, to stop being so mad, the soldier in him told him to beat the answers out of Sherlock that he had been grasping at for two years, but the man—plain, old John Watson—wasn't sure what he wanted anymore. Before this evening, John was completely set on attempting a relationship with Mary, with leaving the flat and letting his wounds heal as the bullet-hole in his shoulder had. He knew that they wouldn't have been able to have children, due to their biology, but he would have been content with her company for the rest of his dreary days. Now? Sherlock was back. That brilliant idiot of a genius that had his running through London and shooting evil cabbies and nearly getting blown up in a vest from Moriarty, was back and John honestly didn't know what to do. He had gone through the grief, the frustration and had begun recovery work when all of that was torn down and John was left without a structure to compensate for the loss of his best friend. When he looked back to said friend, he could see the bruises darkening on the, very pale, skin of the detective. John grabbed an icepack from the fridge and slid it over the counter to him, but he was just staring at John with a blank expression and calculative eyes.

"What?" John finally asked into the prolonged silence. Sherlock shifted, lifting the ice to his face and pouting, much like a child.

"You're upset." Sherlock stated, and John suppressed an eye-roll. Sure, the man was a genius in a ridiculously wide range of subjects, but when it came to actual human emotions, to feelings, Sherlock didn't know what to do. Anyone else would have been more angry, would hate that their best friend couldn't even comfort them or send one bloody letter, but they weren't John. The soldier ventured around the counter to the detective and hugged him around his—too thin—middle. Sherlock would tease him for such sentiment, but the bloody wanker was back home and John could deal with the teasing for the reassurance it brought him to feel the genius just breathing in his arms. When he finally let go, he almost didn't catch the blush tinting Sherlock's cheeks before he turned away to examine a drawer of petri dishes that were perfectly undisturbed. John smiled and set to the task of making tea. Sherlock was almost out of the kitchen, on the way to his room, when he murmured something just under his breath.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John felt his smile really warm up his face as the genius did a familiar fidget, his outward tell of distress with emotions, and repeated himself before disappearing into his own bedroom.

"I missed you too, John." That statement alone brought something back into place, something that had been knocked off course since The Fall. John wasn't sure what, but he knew he would figure it out sooner or later. For now, he was just... content.


End file.
